


Grapes

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Dry Humping, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry and George eat in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grapes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahcakes613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for bookhoor’s “a Murdoch Mysteries fic focused on my beloved George” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). Warning, I can’t and don’t write historically. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They leave right after work with their uniforms still on so as not to waste any time; they have to get as far as they can and back before dark. Their hats they leave behind, but their jackets they only unbutton at the top, once they’re safely around the corner and far out of the inspector’s sight. George fidgets with it more, tugging at his collar over and over, drawing Henry’s eye each time. There’s something about the bob of his adam’s apple that makes Henry dry-mouthed. But most of George does that. He’s too cute for his own good, and when he spots Henry staring, he dons that beautiful, glowing grin of his: the little quirk at the side of his lips that dimples his cheeks and lights him up like the sun. 

George carries the basket in one hand. Henry packed it, but if he gets George talking about nonsense at just the right moment, George will do the heavy lifting without thinking about it. It’s probably left over conditioning from doing Detective Murdoch’s digging. When George finishes his speech about the obvious existence of aliens on Venus, he lifts it up and asks, “Anyway, why am I carrying your basket?”

“Because you’re stronger, George,” Henry chirps. He has to do his best not to laugh and betray his trickery. 

George smiles in spite of himself, muttering humbly, “Well, I don’t know about that...” but he keeps his fingers locked around the handle, leaving Henry’s arms free at his sides. 

It takes a good bit of walking to reach the nearest forest—a deep, wild place, instead of just Toronto’s lush parks. The farther they go out in the city, the more looks they draw, but traveling outskirts is hardly new to them. Before long the smooth roads are dying into uneven dirt, and then they’re dealing with underbrush, taking up a hiking trail. They don’t do any hills, because they get enough of a workout at the station, but when Henry takes them off the path and into the smattering of trees, George asks, “I still don’t understand why it has to be in the woods like this.”

“None of your aunts ever took you on a picnic before?” Henry asks, half sarcastic and half inviting one of George’s inevitable tangents. It’ll keep the walk more interesting, because Henry takes them far off the path, though only ever in one direction, just in case they get lost and a pocket compass and two constables’ training aren’t enough. 

Instead, George rolls his eyes and says with his usual gentle exasperation, “Well not out in the _woods_ , Henry. That’s what fields are for. Although, my Aunt Marigold—”

As much as Henry loves George’s voice, the minute he finds a good place to settle down, he decides, “Here.” They’ve come to a rare patch of grass, interspersed with ferns but wide enough between the tall, spindly trees for two grown men to sit comfortably. So long as they stay on their rears, the uneven ground, fallen logs, and high bushes should keep them hidden if anyone approaches, at least long enough to make themselves presentable. With their uniforms still on, it’ll be easier, at least, to come up with a likely story that isn’t just two men canoodling alone together. 

They sit on the floor without bothering with a blanket: they don’t have expensive skirts to protect. Henry sits right next to George, far closer than he ever would in a park, so that their knees touch with the basket right in front. The wicker lid lifts off to a pair of sandwiches wrapped in paper and a travel tin of strawberries—a suggestion from the shopkeeper when Henry vaguely referenced his ‘sweetheart’. George reaches out for a sandwich, but Henry says, “Wait.” He plucks up a strawberry himself, then elaborates, “This is why I wanted to make sure we were alone.”

Turning his body to George, Henry lifts the red fruit to George’ plush lips. George looks down at it, big eyes confused at first, but then he opens his mouth and tilts forward. Henry shakes his head, and George lifts a brow but listens, stilling. Henry presses the strawberry against his bottom lip, holds it there, sucks in a breath and drags it along George’s seam, tracing his outline.

On the second circle, George dips his head and bites into it, just the end, prying off enough to spill its juices along his lips. He chews before he licks it away, leaning in again for another, this time touching the ends of Henry’s fingertips locked around the stem. 

George’s barely finished chewing when Henry chucks the remains away, lunging forward to grab George’s face, his palm cupping George’s cheek. He swipes his tongue across George’s chin, collecting the stray liquid sugar, then runs up to slip into George’s mouth, where he’s met with a happy, eager kiss. George tastes sweet, warm and wet, and Henry finds himself pushing closer, grinding them together. George is sturdy, strong, loops one arm around his middle and presses back. For all his clumsiness, he kisses like he was made for it. Or at least like he really _wants_ to, and that always makes Henry grin. 

He’s grinning wide when he finally pulls away. George’s lips are glistening, twisting up as George murmurs coyly, “Oh. I see.”

He gives Henry another kiss while Henry thumbs at his sideburns, fingers drifting back into his dark hair. While George’s tongue seeks out his, he slips down George’s neck, digging beneath the collar, to slide inside the tip of George’s jacket and the crisp, white shirt below. His skin is silky smooth, soft and tender. George’s frame is strong, muscled enough but ripe and plump in places, maybe a bit bigger than Henry. For the most part, they’re evenly matched. A perfect pair. They just sort of _fit_ , even when they’re bickering, like peanut butter and jelly, or Detective Murdoch and Doctor Ogden.

He tries not to go any lower. He tries to be chaste, even though George with his uniform unbuttoned, even just a little bit, is always alluring. The next time Henry pulls back, George is faster, and he gets to the strawberry first. 

George feeds Henry the same way, but murmurs, “Just take a small bite.” Even though George doesn’t outrank him here, Henry listens. He waits for George to push the pointed end into his mouth, and he plucks out a small chunk, while George takes the rest back to his own mouth to finish it off. Henry hadn’t even thought of sharing small fruit like that, but trust George to get creative. 

Feeding each other is slow and messy, but it’s summer and they’ve got a couple hours of light left. When they finish all the strawberries, they settle for tasting each other, until George’s stomach rumbles and Henry scoffs and pulls out the sandwiches. After he’s handed one over, George lifts up the fluffy bread, while Henry tells him, both dry and fond, “There’s no butter, George.”

“Good,” George announces, clapping the bread together again. “Butter has its place, but a friend of the sandwich it is not.”

Normally, Henry would fight that, just for the fun of banter, but he’s already got his mouth full so doesn’t bother. They eat in relative silence with their legs in an intertwined heap together, half facing one another and half just looking out at the forest. There’re a few birds out and the occasional hum of an insect or rustle of a squirrel, but mostly, it’s quiet. Henry only has to wave a fly away once. 

George eats his bread funny, as he’s wont to do with most things, when he discovers new techniques or dispenses old ones. Today, he eats all the crust off his bread first, because, “That’s the worst part, so it’s best to get it out of the way.” Sometimes his Newfie accent makes his anecdotes more charming, other times just cuter. When he’s near the end, he gets a smear of raspberry jelly along the corner of his lips that he doesn’t seem to notice. 

Henry, of course, knows just what to do with it. He finishes the last of his sandwich—gone faster because he isn’t so particular—and he drapes himself along George’s side, pressing his tongue into the end of George’s mouth. He licks away the jelly, then laps again at it, more than necessary, because George makes him _hungry_ for things that food can’t satisfy. 

George smiles again. He probably doesn’t know how handsome he is, how dazzling, how far Henry would go to stay by his side. He muses, “You’re making it very difficult to concentrate on eating.”

“You make it hard to concentrate on anything,” Henry counters, and he leans closer so that he has to shift his arm. He puts his hand on George’s leg for support, then runs up George’s thigh, until he’s got the heel of his palm pressing into the front of George’s pants. George hurriedly finishes off the last of his bread, maybe too distracted to enjoy the fact that it’s crustless. Henry kneads him through it, petting the growing bulge at his crotch. There’s a flask of water in the basket, but Henry’s thirsty for other things, and he contemplates diving down and taking George into his mouth right here, suckling out a fresh dessert. 

He doesn’t get the chance. As soon as George’s sandwich is gone, he turns to Henry, and kisses Henry so hard that he falls right over, knocked back into the earth. A root jabs into his spine, but his grunt is swallowed up in George’s mouth, and the discomfort’s more than worth the weight of George atop him. George still has one leg between his, the other at his side, and when George rolls down into him, Henry can _feel_ his partner’s need. 

He brings his hands back up George’s back, over George’s shoulders, stretching the fabric there taut—these uniforms aren’t meant for this kind of play. But they’re definitely fun to play in. George looks good in anything, but he looks especially _delicious_ in a disheveled uniform, with Henry’s fingers in his hair and his pants straining to burst open. 

They rock together for a few moments, hips slamming into one another. It makes Henry think vaguely of dogs, humping out in the woods, but he’d rather have this, crude and unacceptable, then some proper, prim woman in his bed. He used to think he could go for either, knew he’d have to go for a woman, but then he met _George_ , and it doesn’t matter what else he could take. George is all he wants. George kisses like a dream, like he wants to _eat Henry alive_ , and he runs one hand along Henry’s body while the other weaves into Henry’s hair, elbow supporting his weight. He feels a few pounds heavier than the last time they did this. The pressure makes Henry dizzy.

He doesn’t want to stop, but this time George moves away, tilting his forehead to press into Henry’s and hold him down, keep him from sealing them back together. Henry whines, and George asks, husky and breathless, “Did you pack oil?”

Henry’s keening noise abruptly turns into a groan. He scrunches his eyes closed, lifting his head just enough to slam it back against the dirt disparagingly. He curses himself under his breath, and when he opens his eyes, George’s nose is wrinkled. But he always makes the best of things, and he mumbles, “It’s alright, we’ll just...” He looks up, off into the distance. His head’s probably moving like Detective Murdoch’s chalkboard, but as Henry’s often the one who’s channel needs oiling up, he doesn’t want to take the chance of a makeshift, untested solution. 

So he just tugs at George’s shoulders and insists, “This’ll be enough.” George looks at him, then smiles, and nods. That smile’s all Henry’s ever needed. He kisses George again, and they degenerate back into that: all warm touches and fruit-flavoured passion.


End file.
